


Into The Night

by wave_of_sorrow



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Drugs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 13:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wave_of_sorrow/pseuds/wave_of_sorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are days when Watson feels like he's the audience, a bystander, an onlooker; doomed to watch Holmes tear himself in two and unable to interfere, neither puppeteer nor puppet, something in between, something that is as insignificant as it is important. And Holmes, Holmes is the puppet in a play, a play that Watson is watching, a play he doesn't understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into The Night

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my LJ as a response to a Kinkmeme prompt.
> 
> Based on/inspired by U2's "Bad", though it's not necessary to know the song for the story to make sense.

There are days when Watson feels like he’s the audience, a bystander, an onlooker; doomed to watch Holmes tear himself in two and unable to interfere, neither puppeteer nor puppet, something in between, something that is as insignificant as it is important. And Holmes, Holmes is the puppet in a play, a play that Watson is watching, a play he doesn’t understand. He’s missing something, he knows he’s missing something, but he doesn’t see what it is. Maybe he’s not looking close enough or maybe he’s too close, far too close to see it clearly. Or maybe he’s not even meant to understand. Maybe what he’s missing is that he’s not meant to see what’s missing.

 

Holmes thinks, pretends to think he’s the puppeteer, the playwright, pulling the strings, but he’s not and Watson knows it, knows that Holmes knows it. Holmes is the puppet and Lady Cocaine his puppeteer, pulling and yanking his strings, making him twirl and spin. And sometimes, rarely, very rarely Holmes will say things, things like if I could, you know that I would let it go or if I could…but this isn’t a choice I can make anymore. And Watson will say yes, you can, let it go…just let it go. And Holmes will shake his head. And Watson will say if I could, you know I would…would do anything, everything to set you free. And Holmes will smile sadly.

 

Colours crash, collide in Holmes’ bloodshot eyes, circles painted beneath them in blue and black. Their world is built on if I could’s and yes I would’s and nothing ever comes of it. And Watson thinks that if Holmes only wanted, tried, fought hard enough, he would, he could, but he won’t, he can’t. Holmes tries to explain it once, says it’s about the feeling of surrender, about being alive again, about escaping the pain and the desperation, says he can’t stop, can’t let go, that he’s afraid of letting go, afraid that he’ll fade away. But his eyes are seas of black, dark skies without stars, when he says it and Watson doesn’t think he means it.

 

Under a bruised silken sky Holmes says I’m afraid of what will happen after I stop, of what I’ll see and Watson holds his hand and says just let it go and you’ll find a way. And Holmes laughs bitterly and desperation flashes in his eyes, dull and brittle and not much of a flash at all. I’m so tired, Watson and I’m wide awake, not sleeping, wide awake and so, so tired and I’m not sleeping.

 

And still, he’s missing something, Watson knows. And sometimes, sometimes when it’s well into the night he thinks that maybe, maybe he’s not meant to understand. Maybe what he’s missing is that he’s not missing anything. Maybe what he’s missing is that there’s nothing he can do.


End file.
